‘She’s ill,’ he called.
‘She’s always bloody ill.’ I heard Mirabelle but I couldn’t focus on anyone now.
‘It’s liquid silver. His chain. The one Jess had and Nell. The azogue. It’s mercury.’
‘Stop, Ursula! Just be quiet.’ Spear’s face rippled with anger.
‘You . . . It’s . . .’ I looked down the stairs at Mother. ‘Angel has been poisoned with mercury. His charms were mercury. It’s open. The liquid’s gone.’
I looked defiantly at Spear and took one step down. I felt the stairs slip from beneath my foot.
I could feel Spear’s hand on my back. I was falling.
Everything disappeared.
CHAPTER 19: THE MADNESS OF VATICINATION
In the distance, I could hear the words repeating over and over. ‘She’s mad as a hatter.’ I could hear Angel laughing hysterically somewhere in the back of my dream. ‘Look at her! Mad as a hatter, the crazy b—’
I remembered Aunt Charlotte whispering on the stairs, ‘She doesn’t like being called crazy. Not after the . . .’
‘Mad as a hatter,’ I murmured. ‘Mad as a hatter.’ My eyes snapped open and there they all were, leaning over me with distorted faces.
‘What are you saying, dear?’ Aunt Charlotte looked confused.
‘It’s nothing.’ Mother was there, somewhere.
I could feel the bare boards beneath me. The weak sunlight was falling through the sitting room window onto the chair at the table as if it was trying to throw light on whoever sat there. The chair was empty.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked around the room. Spear was sitting by the wall, fiddling with some sort of small knife. I closed my eyes. The top of the stairs. His hand on my back. I remembered.
‘He tried to push me down the stairs.’ I gripped Mother’s arm.
Her mouth turned down and I could see Mirabelle shaking her head.
‘He told me to be quiet. He had his hand on my back . . .’
‘He also caught you and carried you all the way down the stairs.’ Aunt Charlotte leaned closer. ‘It was all very . . .’
‘Stop, Charlotte!’ Mother flashed The Look at Spear.
He just continued to fiddle with the penknife.
Mother stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘Right.’ It sounded like there was going to be more, but she just waited.
‘I need to get some air.’ Spear folded up the penknife and walked towards the door.
‘Now, wait a minute,’ Aunt Charlotte said, ‘you can’t just walk out like that. There’s a body here!’
‘And I’m going to help with that, am I?’ He stared at us. ‘So far, you’ve accused me of killing my wife, killing one of my passengers and trying to push one of them down the stairs. Men don’t rank very highly in your world, do they, ladies? I think you might just be able to cope without me for two minutes.’ He strode out the room without looking back, nearly knocking Bridget over as she came through.
‘Not Mr Bojingles! Spare him,’ she shouted at him and held the dog close.
He paused, astonished. ‘Christ! You are all utterly insane!’ I could hear his boots stomp out into the hall and the front door slam heavily.
‘How rude.’ Bridget motored into the room with the dog at her feet. ‘Now, what have I missed?’ She passed her smile over us all.
I sat back against the wall and let out a sigh.
‘I thought he tried to push me but perhaps . . .’
‘Never mind, dear. We all make mistakes.’ Aunt Charlotte patted my shoulder.
‘Some more frequently than others.’ Mirabelle turned and looked out the window at Spear, who was in the process of kicking a large rock.
‘He is a very odd man, isn’t he?’ Bridget said to the dog. ‘Best you don’t look.’ She covered the dog’s eyes with her hand and said quietly to us, ‘That’s Mr Bojingles’s favourite rock.’
We looked back out the window and Spear was frowning at his foot. He seemed to swear then proceed to wipe his foot vigorously on the grass.
‘Mad as a hatter, that’s what he said.’
‘Ursula.’ Mother leaned closer and gritted her teeth. ‘Will you stop saying that or they might just think you’re the mad one.’
‘She is, isn’t she?’ As usual, Mirabelle was quick to stick the knife in.
‘No, Mother—’ I looked into her face — ‘He’s as mad as a hatter, not me.’
‘Who’s as mad as a hatter?’ Bridget continued to stroke Mr Bojingles slowly and rhythmically, as though she was performing some sort of interrogation technique. It wouldn’t really be too much of a surprise if we discovered Bridget had been a spy or a sleeper all of these years, deep undercover in Mother’s book group. To be fair, we’d all been sleepers there.
‘We need to honour the dead.’ Bottlenose stumbled into the door. It was hard to imagine how he’d maintained such a consistent level of drunkenness given that there’d been no available alcohol except for my brandy in a Bible. Perhaps he was just topping up the general toxicity level of his blood.
‘I’m not honouring that bastard.’ Jess wasn’t far behind him. ‘He stole my fiancé’s boots and didn’t even bother to put them back on.’
Bridget tilted her head to one side and folded her arms. ‘You mean the boots you threatened to kill him for wearing? You did hold a knife to the man, my dear.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Jess’s anger seemed to rise very quickly. ‘Blame the vulnerable woman. The man wasn’t stabbed, was he?’
‘Oh, I think you’re very far from vulnerable, my dear,’ Bridget smiled. ‘I take it you still have the knife, do you?’
She looked away.
‘Mr Spear’s knife I believe,’ Bridget added.
Jess looked at her strangely with those sharp green eyes, as if she might be contemplating using that knife right now.
‘Well, it was Spear who was the one brawling with Angel because he’d slept with his wife,’ Jess retorted. I was starting to understand what Bridget meant. Jess certainly wasn’t as vulnerable as we’d all first imagined. ‘And let’s just take a minute to remember that we’re talking about the wife who happens to still be missing.’
‘Right, that’s enough!’ Mother said firmly. ‘We—’
‘We need to get that body to the church,’ Bottlenose interrupted. He looked at our less-than-enthusiastic faces.
Aunt Charlotte sighed. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell us it’s bad luck or some such nonsense.’
‘And you don’t think we’re in the middle of a lot of that already?’ Mirabelle said.
‘I think it might be wise to have a little less vaticination.’ Bridget let the word linger before looking round with the smug face of a Countdown contestant who knows an obscure word. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Should I explain?’
‘No.’
She ignored Mother and launched into a definition. ‘Vaticination is the art of prophecy or prediction. Thus, our smelly friend here, Captain Bottlenose, is in fact a vaticinator.’
‘You’ll take that back or I’ll make you.’ Bottlenose staggered to his feet.
‘No, no, Captain Bottlenose, I’m simply saying . . .’
He took a step closer.
‘Very well, Captain. Very well. You are not a vaticinator. You are simply a very odd man indeed.’
‘I’ll take that.’ He nodded in satisfaction.
‘But that does not alter the fact,’ Mother interrupted, ‘that something did that to Angel and we don’t know what. We need to get Angel’s body out of here. It’s full of toxins.’ She made it sound like he’d just rocked up for one of her colonic sessions. To be honest, I’m not sure they’d notice if someone was dead anyway.
‘Like the old woman says—’ Bottlenose nodded towards Mother who looked suitably horrified — ‘we need to get that body out or he’ll stink the place up.’
Everyone waited for someone to speak.
‘I suppose he does have a point. We don’t know what he died from,’
Mirabelle said. ‘He could still be toxic.’ She looked at Bottlenose. ‘You and Spear can carry him.’
‘Not a chance.’ Bottlenose didn’t seem to be in an accommodating mood.
‘We are the paying guests,’ Mother said as if we were at a hotel reception desk. I know this because she’s used this phrase at a hundred hotel reception desks.
‘I’m not being paid to carry contaminated corpses around.’
It was a fair point that Bottlenose was making.
Bridget grimaced, or smiled — it’s hard to tell sometimes. ‘But you were paid to sail a boat, weren’t you? And in light of the fact that there is no longer a boat and you were incapable of sailing the one we had, I think undertaker will do for now as your occupation on this island.’
He staggered in a way that didn’t instil confidence in his ability to transport dead bodies.
‘I think you’re going to need some help.’ I looked out of the window to where Spear was now poking at his shoe with a stick and still swearing heavily.
Mother followed my gaze. ‘Leave him.’
‘I’ll just go and ask him.’ I stood up shakily.
‘You’re in no state to go anywhere. Sit down, Ursula.’ Mother was being remarkably firm, even for her.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I said, sit down!’ She seemed somehow concerned.
‘Mother, this tired old drunk isn’t going to be able to carry that body to that chapel on his own. So unless you want to start dragging Angel across the wilderness, I’m going to speak to him.’ I paused. ‘I owe him an apology, at least.’
‘You owe him nothing at all!’ Mother blustered.
‘And we’re quite capable of carrying a dead body,’ Mirabelle leaped in again. ‘We don’t need a man.’
‘Oh, let her go, Pandora,’ Aunt Charlotte said. ‘Just let her talk to the guy.’
Mother shifted her guns. ‘And what would you know about it, Charlotte? Your experience of men extends to a series of fictional encounters on public transport!’
Mirabelle let out a laugh.
‘How dare you! Both of you.’ Aunt Charlotte turned away.
There was an awkward silence behind which we could hear the distant rush of the sea. Bridget was enjoying the moment, rocking her dog in her arms and smiling.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I sighed and began to walk out of the room.
‘Ursula!’
I didn’t answer Mother. She could wait.
* * *
The frozen air rushed into my lungs the minute I stepped out into the wind. The thick, grey sea fret pulled in over the distant islands so there was no distinguishing the land from the sky anymore. The small chapel was now only a vague outline against the wall of clouds. But its shape was still a very real and constant reminder of the dead men inside it and the one waiting in the house.
Spear was standing with his back to me, looking down towards the shore. I could tell he knew I was there as his shoulders flinched with the sound of the door slamming behind me. He didn’t look round.
I took another breath and walked towards him. The sands stretched out in front of him in the same faded colours as the sky. The constant sound of the sea was like the wind rushing through a thick forest. But there was no place for trees here. This land was beaten low by persistent gales. The air hadn’t been still since we got here.
I stood alongside him and cleared my throat. ‘OK?’
He frowned and gave a single nod.
I turned to him. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about the whole throwing-me-down-the-stairs thing. I wasn’t thinking straight. I . . . have a few issues . . . just with my balance, that is.’
‘It’s fine.’ His words were clipped.
‘Oh, come on, don’t do this. I—’
Now he did turn to face me, and I wished he hadn’t. His face was a tight cluster of anger. ‘Don’t do what, exactly? I’m stuck on this island with you and your carnival of fools! My wife is out there somewhere, most likely dead, a fact you decided to hide from me. I still don’t even know what you saw or even if you’re telling the truth.’
‘That’s not fair! I was drowning. We’d been capsized in a massive storm at sea. You’ll forgive me if I was fighting to survive waves the size of a bloody house. You took us out there. You were in charge.’
‘Look, whatever you saw out there, it wasn’t me. OK? Yes, we were separated, we were getting a divorce. But like so many married couples, we’d taken the route of paperwork rather than elaborate murder schemes involving scuppering my own ship so that I could drown her and maroon myself in this godforsaken hole without any food or any way of getting off.’ He stepped closer towards me. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you or any of your bizarre selection of relatives. I’m just trying to survive, find my wife and get us all to safety.’
‘There’s no need to be so—’
‘So what? Dramatic? Because that, lady, is your bloody calling card.’
‘It’s not, actually. It says The Smart Women, Mother got a job lot made when she did an article about the Slaughter House. They thought it might be a nice brand. Better than Slaughter House Five.’
He stood there looking at me. ‘I just can’t believe you people. You’re like some sort of lunatic Girl Guides’ camp! Your mother is an utter control—’
‘Hey, I didn’t ask you to get personal.’
‘This is personal, Ursula. We are shipwrecked together on a deserted island with a killer on the loose. How much more personal do you want this to get?’
We waited, with the wind circling us.
‘I’m . . . we’re all just scared.’ I was determined not to cry.
‘Well, so am I!’ He looked away, towards the sea. ‘My wife’s out there. It’s my fault.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t.’
He shook his head. ‘For Christ’s sake, I meant that she was on this trip because of me. I said, “one last trip”. I asked her to come. For old times’ sake. She didn’t want to come back to Lewis, to Leverburgh. She hated the place. She’d not been back for years but I had to ask her, didn’t I? Had to say we could do it, have one last trip before we sailed our separate ways. And now look. It’s such a bloody mess.’
‘It’ll be OK,’ I didn’t sound very convinced. ‘It always is.’
He frowned at me. ‘It always is? You’ve got to be kidding me. Listen, let me get this straight right now, I don’t want to know what you did last summer, it’s way too scary for normal people. My life doesn’t feature murders at regular intervals.’
‘That’s not fair. That’s not fair at all.’ I moved away and he grabbed my sleeve. ‘Don’t.’ I pushed his hand away. ‘Yes, you’re right, I spent a weekend in the Slaughter House fighting for my life — so I suppose in some way, I must deserve all this.’ I started to walk off.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ursula.’
I turned to face him and the wind dragged my hair back. ‘You’re sorry, everyone’s sorry. Mother’s sorry, they’re all sorry. You know what they’re in there discussing now? How Jess got hold of your knife.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right. You’re the one who runs around with dangerous weapons on a campsite, not me.’
‘Wait a minute, I didn’t pull the knife, she did.’
‘But it was your knife.’
‘Well, no one’s been bloody stabbed, have they? So what does that matter?’
‘You didn’t want me to tell them what I saw, did you? The mercury gone from his charm. You knew about those charms all too well, didn’t you? Given that your own wife wore one.’
He moved towards me. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t stop you saying anything. In fact, I think you’ve said enough.’
I walked away, back to the house before he could see any tears.
As I opened the door, I saw Mother standing in the hallway like a one-woman firing squad. She saw me wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
> ‘Nothing. Just leave it, Mother.’ I looked down.
‘You didn’t need to go bounding after the man like some sort of idiotic puppy. We don’t need him or any of the weaponry he chose to bring on this little jaunt. Never trust a man who packs a knife to go on holiday.’ Mother has a cute little phrase for everything.
‘He’s the best chance we’ve got of getting off this island.’
‘Oh, spare me. Ursula, if I’ve taught you nothing else, it’s that you don’t need some man to save you.’
‘Mother, I don’t need saving at all . . . Well, except for now with the whole marooned thing. I mean generally. I’m not in need of saving.’
We locked eyes. ‘He’s trouble, Ursula.’
‘Aren’t they all, according to you? What do you suggest, Mother, that I live with you for ever? Not all of us can be lucky enough to find someone like Dad.’
‘Lucky? You call that lucky?’ She looked at me as if she wanted to say a lot more.
The door to the sitting room opened and Aunt Charlotte came out.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Mother turned and marched up the stairs as if there wasn’t a dead body waiting in one of the rooms at the top of them.
I sat down on the settle in the hallway, dust clouding up around me. I let a stray tear fall unchecked.
‘Oh, my girly, come on now. It can’t be that bad.’ Aunt Charlotte sat down next to me and the wood groaned. She put her heavy arm around me. ‘You’ve got to cut her some slack, Ursula. Especially where men are concerned.’ She said it like they were a disease.
‘She had Dad.’
‘Exactly, my dear.’
I looked up into her face. A few of my tears fell onto her tweed jacket and rested there for a moment like perfect silver droplets. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, dear . . .’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘I suppose I’d say he was like most of us — not all saint, not all sinner.’
I stared at her and she squeezed her lips together as if she was scared of what else might slip out. ‘Aunt Charlotte? What exactly is that supposed to mean?’
She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t . . .’
I gripped her arm. ‘What do you mean, “you shouldn’t”? Shouldn’t what?’
BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2) Page 17